Little Hero
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: When Jimmy gets caught up with some bad guys during an investigation, it's up to the team to rescue him...or is it the other way around? Secret Santa fic written for Leona Esperanza.
1. Chapter 1

The morning was not going well for Jimmy. Against his better judgment, he had gone out to a bar the night before with a few fellow classmates to celebrate the end of the semester. After knocking back a couple of drinks, he'd bid them goodbye, returning to his small apartment to rest up for the night. Unfortunately, he'd been one of many residents to lose electricity that night and his alarm clock had not woken him up at the proper time. He'd slept in for a good three hours past his normal wake-up time (no thanks, certainly, to the alcohol he'd imbibed the previous evening) and probably would have slept longer had it not been for the phone call from Ducky, asking "where the devil" he was. If that weren't bad enough, the heavy snow made the streets slick and dangerous, so Jimmy had to creep along on his way into NCIS. Ducky had sounded angry on the phone and Jimmy could only imagine how disappointed his mentor would be.

What a crummy Christmas season this was turning out to be.

After showing his ID to the guard at the gate, Jimmy parked and grabbed his things before hustling in out of the cold. At least he got to work inside, a plus during this seemingly never-ending freeze wave.

"I am so sorry, Dr. Mallard," he gushed as he entered autopsy. "My alarm clock didn't go off this morning. We lost power. It must have been the snow. But I'm ready to work."

Ducky's response came in the form of a resonating sneeze into his handkerchief. "Yes, well, now that you are here, Mr. Palmer, I'm afraid that I am confined to the NCIS building on account of this dreadful cold, so you will have to go on ahead without me."

Jimmy looked up, dumbfounded. "Go on ahead?"

"Yes," Ducky said, after blowing his nose, "to the scene. The team has already left and should be there soon." Seeing Jimmy's blank look, Ducky sighed exasperatedly. "The car crash I told you about on the phone."

"Oh." Jimmy didn't remember being told anything about a car crash, but he had admittedly been a bit distracted that morning. "Could you remind me just what you said?"

"You really must learn to pay better attention, Mr. Palmer," Ducky admonished. "As I said earlier, a young Marine was found dead in a strip of road between Arlington and Falls Church. The sheriff suspects it was nothing more than a fatal car accident, but, as always, it is ultimately for us to decide."

He retrieved a slip of paper from his desk and handed it over to Jimmy. "Here are the rough directions of how to get there. I suppose you'll see their truck eventually. And, of course, you have Gibbs' number in case you get lost. Drive carefully, my boy; Jack Frost has been running rampant through Virginia and the roads are likely to be slippery. Wouldn't want you to meet the same fate as our poor Marine."

Jimmy bit back the groan trembling in his throat as he looked down at the directions. He had just started to regain feeling in his toes. "Yes, Doctor," he said as he slipped his coat back on. He hoped Ducky wouldn't notice how his voice dripped with a less-than-enthusiastic tone.

Unfortunately, Jimmy wasn't a good enough actor to hide his reticence. "I know the weather is hardly cheery, lad, but death stops for no one, and, as such, neither can NCIS. The sooner you get out there, the sooner can come back here and I'll be sure to have a nice, warm mug of tea waiting for you."

Jimmy gave his thanks and left for the garage. The autopsy van-dubbed "The Deathmobile" by many of the workers—was sitting, ready to go. It wasn't often that Jimmy got to go to a crime scene alone. The last time he recalled it happening was when Ducky's mother was still alive; she'd cut herself shaving and Ducky had rushed her to the hospital, leaving Jimmy—still a fledgling student—to deal with the body on his own.

He had mixed emotions as he pulled out of the Navy Yard and into the street. On the one hand, he was flattered that Ducky trusted him enough to send him off alone; on the other hand, Jimmy wasn't good at facing Gibbs and he wouldn't have the cover of Ducky to hide behind. He gulped just imagining the special agent's stone-cold glare. It always made him so nervous, even if he knew what he was talking about. One look from Gibbs and Jimmy felt himself dissolving into a blob of nonsensical babbling . He didn't understand how one man could have such an adverse effect on him.

Jimmy shook his head. He just had to get through the next couple of days. Then he would be off to see his family for Christmas and wouldn't be due back for work or school until after the new year. To placate his mind, he switched on the radio he sometimes brought along with him. Ducky didn't care for listening to music on the way to the crime scene, but since he was flying solo on this one he saw no reason why he couldn't try to bring a little jollity to his foul mood.

The sound quality wasn't great, especially as he made his way into the more rural areas of Virginia where the signals became blocked, but he could just make out the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby's voice:

_I'm dreaming of a white Christmas  
__Just like the ones I used to know  
__Where the treetops glisten  
__And children listen  
__To hear sleigh bells in the snow  
__  
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas  
__With every Christmas card I write  
__May your days be merry and bright  
__And may all your Christmases be white_

_

* * *

_

"Cpl. Hensen," Tim read off the fingerprint scanner. "Twenty-seven years old, stationed in Quantico. Next of kin is a brother who lives in Philadelphia."

"Contact him," Gibbs ordered. "See if you can figure out why Hensen was all the way out here. Ziva, pictures. DiNozzo—"

"Just talked to Ducky," Tony said, interrupting Gibbs mid-sentence. "He said the Autopsy Gremlin left about twenty minutes ago, so he should be here soon. Of course, knowing how directionally-challenged Palmer is, we may be here for the better part of the day."

Ziva laughed before snapping a picture. "Perhaps we should build a fire and send up smoke signals to ensure he find us."

"Or send up a flare," Tim added in amusement.

"How about you all get back to work," Gibbs snapped as he walked off to speak with the sheriff who had found the dead Marine. She was a distinguished woman in her 40's whose face bespoke of a weary, but worldly, life. Her name tag identified her as Sheriff DiMarco.

"I got a call around 0700 from a motorist. He had been driving along on his way to visit his parents in Arlington when he saw the car. He stopped to investigate and see if anyone was hurt, but no one was in the car. He assumed the occupant of the car had gotten a ride, but when he drove a half-a-mile down, he saw your man lying face down in the snow. He got out and tried to administer CPR, but it was useless. The man was dead."

Gibbs nodded as he jotted this down in his notebook. "Where is this motorist who called it in?"

"I let him go ahead on his way, but he left me a phone number and address where he can be reached for the next couple of days."

"Thanks," Gibbs said once he'd taken down the name, number, and address of the man. "I'll be in touch if we have any more questions for you."

"Seems pretty obvious to me," she said, glancing down at the body of Cpl. Hensen. The man had sustained external wounds, including a hard knock on the head that had drawn blood. Based on the state of his car, it wasn't unlikely that he had died from his injuries from the accident.

"Perhaps," he agreed, "but sometimes even the most obvious deaths can be deceiving." He gave her a nod and walked back toward his team. Ziva was still snapping photos while Tony took sketches and Tim looked at the cell phone they had found in Hensen's car.

"Called his brother, boss, but there was no answer so I left a message. Last call made was to a local number, but there's no name and it's not saved in his contacts," Tim said. "He made the call at 0442 this morning." He continued scrolling through and let out a strange "hm" sound. "Funny…the number appears a lot in his call history."

"Why's that funny, McGee?"

"Well, it's just that when I call a number a lot, I add it to my contacts. Makes it easier."

"Sounds suspicious," Tony commented.

"Perhaps the person he was calling did not want any record of his name," Ziva added. "Though we have the number."

"Doesn't mean anything," Tim said. "The number could be from a burn phone. If it was purchased with cash, we couldn't possibly know who bought it."

"Think maybe our guy had his breaks cut or something?" Tony asked. "Could be some conspiracy to keep him from talking."

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo, that's why we're investigating," Gibbs muttered as he studied the dead body. It had been turned over when their Good Samaritan had attempted to save him, but according to the sheriff, the man had found him face down. There were no defensive wounds, no sign that he had put up any sort of fight, meaning that, if this was the handiwork of someone, it was someone Hensen knew and trusted. There also weren't any wounds on the back of his head, so no one had struck him while his back was turned. If Gibbs had to guess, he'd say the sheriff was right about the death being a result of the car crash.

But there was a reason NCIS was closely scrutinizing this death. The Cpl. had been privy to sensitive information within the Marine Corps and his C.O. had expressed some concerns over strange behavior Hensen had exhibited recently. There was no proof nor any evidence that a crime had been committed, but those suspicions, combined with Hensen being found all the way out here, was enough to pique concern among the higher-ups.

Gibbs frowned and looked back down at the dead Marine. His gut didn't like this one bit.

The team turned as they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. The white van with NCIS emblazoned across it slowly ambled down the road and pulled over to the side of the road, parking right in front of their van.

"Sorry I'm late," Jimmy said as he rushed out of the van. "I took the wrong left a few miles back."

"Finally!" Tony said with an exaggerated groan. "I thought we were going to be here until Christmas Eve."

Ziva silenced him with a well-placed elbow to the gut. "Do not be so mean, Tony. We were not waiting _that_ long, Jimmy," she assured him.

Jimmy blushed—though it was hard to tell if that was from embarrassment or simply a reaction to the frigid cold—and he ducked his head down as he opened the back door. He struggled a bit, but managed to get the gurney out and rolled it over to the body with his bag of tools on top. "I know this is where Dr. Mallard usually explains what he thinks caused the, uh, untimely demise of our victim," he said as he pulled out the liver probe, "but since Dr. Mallard is stuck back at NCIS, perhaps you'd like me to wait until I've gotten this guy back before hearing possible causes of death?"

"What's the TOD?" Gibbs asked, pointedly ignoring the question at hand.

"Oh, well, I don't know yet. I still need to check that."

"So why are you talking to me instead of doing it?"

Jimmy knew he couldn't answer the question without sounding like a fool, so he opted to focus his attention on the dead Marine. At least _he_ wouldn't berate Jimmy.

"DiNozzo, you and McGee go check the car. See what else you can find in there." They nodded grimly and tightened up their coats before trekking up the road to where the car was still sitting, practically wrapped around the tree it had hit. "Ziva, you done with the pictures?"

"Almost." She was following the blood stains in the snow, documenting them to bring back to Abby. They looked normal to her—as normal as blood stains _could_ look, at least—but who knew what bizarre evidence Abby would be able to pull from the seemingly innocuous stains?

With no one else to turn his glare on, Gibbs returned his attention to Jimmy. "Got a time of death yet or do I have to wait again?"

"Ah, no," Jimmy said, cursing himself for allowing that quiver into his voice. "It's hard to say, of course, just how accurate this is, what with his body being out in the cold and possible changes in weather…"

"Do you have a time or not, Palmer?" Gibbs snapped angrily.

"0500, sir…uh, give or take maybe an hour or so."

"And would you like to wager a guess as to just how it might have died."

Once again, Jimmy felt himself beginning to sweat, despite the frigid temperature. "Uh, well, if I had to say right here, based on just a preliminary glance, I would say he died from injuries sustained during his car crash."

Gibbs didn't respond. Instead, he turned toward Ziva who was finishing up her task. "Look through the body," he said. "See what you can find on him. Then, you," he said to Palmer, "can take him back to Ducky."

Jimmy let out the breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding. "Yes, sir…uh, I mean Gibbs."

Ziva walked up behind Jimmy and gave him a gentle pat on the back. He jumped at her touch, making her laugh. "It is only me, Jimmy."

"Sorry, Ziva. I didn't realize you were right there."

"Why so jumpy?"

"It's just been one of those days. Ever get the feeling something really bad is going to happen?"

"Yes," she admitted, "but in my upbringing one almost always has such a feeling. If they do not, they are likely to end up dead."

"Right," he said with a gulp. "I'll, uh, get the gurney ready."

Less than ten minutes later, Jimmy was rolling the body into the back of the truck and securing it down. It wasn't a moment too soon for him, either. He wasn't sure which was colder: the snow or the angry looks Gibbs kept giving him. "I'll just get this back to Dr. Mallard. He'll probably have a better idea of what killed Cpl. Hensen."

"Drive carefully, Jimmy," Ziva said with a sly grin.

"Yeah, no joyriding, Palmer," Tony quipped.

Jimmy didn't bother to respond as he slid into the driver's seat. He started up the truck and quickly clicked up the heater, relaxing in the comfort of warm air hissing out against him. He pulled the truck out onto the road just as the snow began to fall. _At least I won't have to be out in that_, he thought with satisfaction. He glanced in the rearview mirror at the team, still processing the scene.

Things were beginning to look up and Jimmy felt his sour mood dissipating as he drove along the road. It was a more rural area, and only trees surrounded the road. When it was covered with snow like this, the scene was almost idyllic, like something on a Christmas card.

As Jimmy was enjoying the sights, he noticed a dark-colored car coming up behind him. At first he paid it no mind, even if it was following a bit too closely for comfort; the driver could stay as close on him as he wanted to, Jimmy wasn't going to speed up in this weather. Then, he realized that the car was dangerously close to him. With a frown, he increased his speed just a bit, hoping the other car would back off. But it only increased its own speed.

"Go around," Jimmy muttered irritably. There wasn't any sign of a car coming from the opposite direction, leaving the adjacent lane open. He rolled down the window and stuck his hand out, gesturing for the other car to simply pass him. That seemed to work, as the car switched into the other lane and pulled up alongside. But it didn't pass him. Instead, the car swerved inward, almost hitting him.

"Hey!" Jimmy yelped, honking his horn. "Watch it!" He tried to look into the vehicle, but the windows were tinted and he couldn't see a thing.

The car pulled up so that the front of the car was just ahead the front of the autopsy van. Then, it swerved inward once again, this time actually making contact with the van. Jimmy felt himself lose control of the van and he instinctively slammed his foot on the brake. The vehicle slipped a little on the road, but as he continued pumping the pedal, he felt the van begin to slow down, little by little.

The tree it hit really helped bring it to a stop.

Jimmy blinked rapidly and shook his head. He wasn't hurt, but he was a little dizzy, not to mention his heart was racing like it was in the Daytona 500. It also sounded like a few things had shifted around in the back. Hopefully, the body wasn't too disturbed.

The other car pulled up in front of him and stopped. Jimmy groaned. Time to face them. He hoped they wouldn't try to pin this on him.

He kicked open the door and slipped out. "Hey, are you all okay?"

The passenger door opened and Jimmy found himself face-to-face with a gun.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy stared slack-jawed at the gun. The holder of the gun—a tall, burly man with a thin moustache above his lip—stepped out of the car with ease, his aim never wavering from his target. The driver's door opened as well, and a shorter, clean-shaven man stepped out.

"I apologize for our tactics," the driver said with a bright, almost jovial, grin on his face.

"Look, if you're worried about paying for damages, I'll just say it was my fault," Jimmy stammered. What had set these guys off? Who pulled out a gun over a simple car accident? Then again, he was starting to get the idea that there was nothing accidental about any of this.

"Oh, the damages don't matter," the driver said. "But we will need you to open your van and get that body out of the back."

"Uh, what body?"

"Don't play stupid!" spat the man holding the gun. "We want Hensen's body."

"No need to be rude, Butch," the driver said gently. He walked around the car toward Jimmy. "You'll have to excuse my associate," he said as he took Jimmy by the arm and led him to the back of the van. "He can have a temper sometimes. Now why don't you just open this and get the body out. Then we can get what we need and we'll all be on our merry ways."

Jimmy didn't believe for a second that these men had any intention of letting him go along his merry way. He'd seen their faces and their car. They had to know he could identify him. Still, he saw no other choice but to comply. The van wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Plus, they had a gun while he was completely unarmed.

He opened the back and hopped in. "I'll need you to grab it on that end," he said.

The driver smiled a large smile, like that of a shark. "Of course. But don't try anything stupid. Butch here has got an itchy trigger finger."

Jimmy didn't reply as he took a hold of the gurney and pushed it toward the edge of the van. The other man lifted up the other end and angled it down while Jimmy lifted the other end and walked it forward. Soon, they had the gurney and body bag on solid ground.

"Put your hands behind your head and kneel down," the gunman ordered. Jimmy did as he was told, biting back a comment about how cold the ground was.

The driver unzipped the bag. "Poor Hensen," he said with a click of his tongue.

"Did you kill him?" Jimmy regretted asking the question. What was he thinking? He needed to just stay quiet and hope this whole thing was over soon.

"The crash killed him. Not part of our plan. He didn't realize it, of course, but we weren't planning on letting him live much longer anyway. We just needed the information." He began patting down the body, searching the pockets of his coat and pants. He frowned. "Did you take anything out of his pocket?"

Jimmy shook his head. "N-no."

"Did anyone else?"

"Uh…"

"Don't even think about lying to us."

He thought back. After he had gotten the time of death, Gibbs had told Ziva to check the body. Had she taken anything out of his pockets? Jimmy hadn't really been paying attention; he'd been focused on how cold it was.

"Maybe," he admitted. "I can't remember."

For the first time, the driver lost his smile. He let out a whispered curse as he zipped up the bag. "It's not on him."

"So what do we do now?" the gunman asked, his eyes still on their hostage. Jimmy hoped the other man wouldn't suggest they kill him.

"The Navy cops must have found it. We'll have to get it back from them." He looked at Jimmy and a smile spread over his face once more. "You work for them, huh?"

"I'm just the autopsy assistant."

"Even better. You're a civilian as far as their concerned. All the better for negotiating."

Negotiating? Jimmy didn't like the sound of that.

He was hoisted to his feet and forced against the side of the van. The driver frisked him, just in case he was lying and had a weapon tucked away. Satisfied that their hostage was completely unarmed, he chucked Jimmy's cell phone off to the side and then tied his hands behind him.

"Put him in the trunk, Butch."

"The trunk?" Jimmy squeaked. The trunk? The dark, tight trunk? Just thinking about it made him start to sweat. "Don't you think I could just ride in the back if I promise to be good?" His answer came in the form of a knock to the head. He didn't black out, but he was dazed. By the time his mind stopped spinning, he was lying down in the trunk and the top was firmly closed.

He scrunched his eyes closed. What he wouldn't give to be back in autopsy, listening to one of Ducky's long stories while enjoying a nice cup of hot tea.

* * *

The team was set and on the road about an hour after Jimmy left. They'd had to stay until a truck arrived to take the totaled car back to NCIS and none of them had enjoyed having to wait around.

"Why can't people die when it's warmer," Tony grumbled as they pulled out.

"Then you would be whining about how hot it is," Ziva pointed out. "I think you just like to whine."

Tim had drawn the short straw, as usual, and was stuck in the back. He pulled his coat tighter around him and rubbed his hands to warm them up. "You guys are in no position to complain. I'm the one back here without the heat."

"How about you all shut up," Gibbs said. They knew it wasn't a suggestion.

The Virginia weather was none too agreeable and it seemed that with each minute, the snow only fell harder. Worse, it was beginning to stick and accumulate. It was so bad that even Gibbs was taking it slow, though he wasn't happy about it.

"If Palmer's TOD on the body is accurate, the last call Hensen made would have come right around the time of his crash. Maybe he called someone for help."

"But no one arrived to help him, McGee," Ziva said.

"Maybe whoever he called didn't get the message." Tim had tried the number several times, but so far no one had answered, something that only increased his suspicions of it being a burn phone.

"So what's your gut telling you?" Tony asked. "Was it an accident or did somebody help do our Marine in? Maybe snip his brakes?"

"I do not think so, Tony."

"And what makes you so sure, Ziva?"

"If somebody wanted him dead, they would not take a chance on him dying in the car crash. Depending on how good a driver he is, how safe the vehicle is, and the weather conditions, the crash could have done nothing. This person would have gone a more reliable route. Say, poison?"

"Unless they're not professionals," Tim piped up. He stuck his head in the opening between the front seat and the back of the truck. "Maybe they're just sloppy. What do you think, boss?"

Gibbs was barely listening. He squinted out of the window as the wipers tried fruitlessly to rid the windshield from snow. "I think Palmer's had an accident, too."

The three of them stopped their squabbling long enough to peer at the road ahead. Sure enough, the autopsy van was situated at an angle, its front smashed against a tree trunk. Strangely, the back was open and the gurney with Cpl. Hensen's body was sitting out on the road.

"Figured the Gremlin would have trouble," Tony proclaimed with a guttural chuckle. Gibbs, though, wasn't so certain. Something about this didn't feel right.

"Looks like the body fell out as well," Ziva commented. "Ducky will not be happy about that."

Tim shook his head as he studied the scene. "I doubt it, Ziva. If the gurney had fallen out after the crash, it would have had enough momentum that it would have rolled further away, assuming it hadn't fallen over. It looks like someone took it out."

"Why would Jimmy do that?"

"Let's find out," Gibbs said as he pulled up behind the van.

The four of them climbed out into the cold, none too happy about the delay. Gibbs walked to the driver's side while Ziva went to the passenger side and Tony and Tim checked out the back.

"Keys are still in ignition," Gibbs said. "But Palmer's not here."

"Yeah, he's not back here, either," Tony replied.

"Someone opened the body bag," Tim said as he examined the gurney. "They unbuttoned Hensen's coat, too."

"Maybe the Autopsy Gremlin had a Pimmy Jalmer urge, like in your book, McShakespeare," Tony joked with a lascivious grin. That smile was wiped from his face by a swift smack to the head.

"We don't have time for your jokes, DiNozzo."

"There is no blood," Ziva pointed out. "We have no reason to think Jimmy was hurt. Perhaps he walked off to look for help."

"He had a cell phone," Gibbs said. "He knew we weren't far. Why not call us for a ride?"

Tim nodded. "Besides," he said, "it doesn't explain why the body is out like this."

Gibbs was about to begin barking out orders when he was silenced by the jingling of his cell phone. "Yeah, Gibbs."

"It's Vance. Did Jimmy Palmer ever get out there?"

"Funny you should ask. He got there and collected the body, but it looks like he may have hit a road bump on the way back."

Vance was silent on the other end, save for an undistinguishable noise that sounded like a cross between a grunt and a sigh. "We have a problem, Gibbs."

* * *

Jimmy couldn't say he'd never been tied up before. His short-lived relationship with Michelle had introduced him to quite a few kinks people would never believe him to take part in. However, at no point had he ever been tied up so tightly it almost cut off circulation, nor had he ever been shoved in the trunk of a moving car. A little wiggling had shown him that he wouldn't be able to loosen the binds and the movement only made him hotter in the stuffy trunk. There was a release hanging before him like the vines of fruit before Tantalus; a release that, with one hard yank, would open the trunk from inside and offer him a means of escape. He could turn and try to reach it with his hands or he could even attempt grabbing it with his teeth.

But then where would that leave him? His hands were still tied and the car wasn't exactly moving along at a snail's pace. Even if he could get the trunk open and jump out without his abductors noticing, the car was moving quickly enough that he knew he'd end up hurting himself. Then where would he be? He'd be bound and hurt outside in the snow and he didn't even know where they were. Who knew when he'd be found, if ever?

He sighed. No, for now he would have to stay put and hope that whatever these men had in store for him wasn't too terrible. From the shorter man's tone of voice, Jimmy gathered that he was to be used as a bargaining chip with NCIS to get whatever it was these men were looking for. Information? Was that what they had said? It had something to do with the dead body, that much he knew. Whatever it was, these men weren't above killing for it.

Jimmy knew NCIS didn't negotiate, but he couldn't help but hope that in this case they would make an exception.

_Don't think like that_, he scolded himself, his eyes shut tight. _Everything will be fine_. _Soon enough you'll be back home, listening to nutty Aunt Nell regale everyone with stories of her time spent in show business, most of which are figments of her imagination. You know, you really should introduce her to Dr. Mallard…_

The car hit a bump, causing his prostrate body to bounce up and hit the top of the trunk painfully. He grimaced as he landed on his stomach. _Just close your eyes and think about how nice it'll be when you're at home, playing the piano while Mom and Dad sing drunkenly_.

It was something of a family tradition, albeit an embarrassing one. His parents weren't exactly Sonny and Cher, especially once they'd had their shares of the gin tonics—and they always did. They always began with the secular songs like "Let it Snow" or "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and then segued into the songs he'd grown up hearing in church. "Silent Night" was one of their favorites, as well as one of his. His mother would always sing it to him when he was little, trying to lull him to sleep so "Santa" could come and leave his gifts. It always managed to make him feel better. So with a shaky voice, he softly began singing to himself:

_Silent night, holy night  
__All is calm, all is bright  
__Round yon virgin, mother and child  
__Holy infant so tender and mild  
__Sleep in heavenly peace  
__Sleep in heavenly peace…_


	3. Chapter 3

"We should have gotten there before the Navy cops."

"Not our fault," Butch replied. "Who could've guessed Hensen would wrap his car around his tree?"

Hal gripped the wheel tightly. He didn't like screw-ups, and this was most certainly a screw-up. It had seemed like a perfect plan. Recruit some disgruntled jarhead with promises of cash, get him to smuggle out classified information, pop him one in the head, then sell the stuff for top dollar and make out like a bandit. The problem had come when he'd gotten the call from a harried and breathless Hensen, telling him he'd been in a car crash and to come help him. He'd been in Boston at the time, talking with a few contacts there, under the assumption that he and Hensen wouldn't be meeting until this afternoon. By the time he and Butch had gotten to the scene, it was already taped off and there was no way of getting to the information. So they'd waited until the autopsy van had left, hoping that what they needed would be on Hensen, but that had failed. Now they had to bank on NCIS being willing to make a swap.

He'd placed the call not long after they'd secured their hostage in the trunk. After being put through to various secretaries and being told Director Vance couldn't be bothered at the moment, he'd finally spoken to the NCIS Director and had told him in no uncertain words that if he was not given what he wanted, the young man—Jimmy Palmer, or so his ID badge had read—would be killed.

"So what're we gonna do with the guy?" Butch asked as Hall turned off onto a dirt road.

"Once NCIS gives us what we need, we'll tell them where to find him."

"He'll be able to ID us, you know."

"Of course I know that!" Hal snarled as the car hit a rather large bump. The road was rocky and rough, but he continued on, slowing the car's pace only a bit. "We'll put him in the cellar and wire a nice little bomb along the door. They open it, and BAM!" he exclaimed, slamming his hand against the wheel for emphasis. "They'll be blown to bits. At least, _most_ of them will; all of them if we're lucky."

Their destination was a small house settled deep into the woods. The house itself was only one-story with a kitchen-cum-living area, one bedroom, and one bathroom. Hardly an ideal living space, but it was one that offered solitude at a cheap price. There were no nosy neighbors to contend with and, best of all, no nosy police officers poking around. For the past three years, it had been Butch's place of residence; for the past ten months, it had been their hideout.

Beneath the house was an underground cellar that could only be accessed by two doors situated beside the house, not unlike storm cellars for twisters. It was where Butch stored a lot of old items, including the things he used to sell for a living before he'd teamed up with Hal. Boxes filled the space, all holding things like car parts and electronics (all stolen), movies (all bootlegged), fireworks, and even some kitchen appliances here and there. They were the kinds of things one could sell out the back of their car, things that didn't require any kind of license or proper identification. Those sorts of things could leave behind a paper trail, and that was the last thing Butch needed.

"I'll give the director a call back in about fifteen minutes," Hal said as he exited the car. "See if he's made a decision yet."

"What do you want me to do?"

Hal nodded to the trunk. "May as well get the kid out of there."

"I could just shoot him right here," Butch offered.

"Nah. They may need proof he's still alive. We'll leave him alone for now."

Butch nodded. He popped open the trunk and found Jimmy lying face down. His eyes were closed, but his mouth was moving and only the faintest of sounds were coming out of it. Was…was he singing?

"Time to get out," Butch announced as he grabbed Jimmy by the shoulders. He roughly dragged him out and dropped him on the ground.

Jimmy landed on his back and his eyes popped open. The surly man—Butch, he had been called (and what a befitting name!)—was looming over him with his lips twisted into a sneer. Jimmy wondered what cruel fate this man had in store for him.

"Up," Butch said, pulling Jimmy to his feet. With one hand on Jimmy's shoulder and the other gripping his elbow, Butch steered him toward Hal, who had opened one of the outside double doors leading down into the cellar. Jimmy was forced down the stairs and into the cellar. The walls and floor were made completely out of cement, save for a small window located just below the ceiling. A couple of pipes ran along the ceiling and down the wall to the floor, into which it was embedded.

Jimmy was forced to sit with his back against one of the pipes. His hands were cut loose and he curled and uncurled his fingers to get blood flowing back into them. However, his newfound freedom was short-lived. Butch yanked his hands together once more and rebound them, this time looping the rope around the pipe as well, offering him limited movement.

"Hope you're comfortable," Hal said disingenuously. "You'll probably be here for a while." He turned to Butch and instructed him to watch Jimmy. "I'm going to make a quick call to NCIS and see if I can't tighten the screws on them." He disappeared up the stairs and out of the cellar, leaving Jimmy alone with the trigger-happy henchman.

He leaned back his head and groaned. _Maybe I should have just called in sick today_.

* * *

Vance had taken the threat very seriously, especially after speaking with Gibbs. He hadn't spoken with Jimmy, but based on the fact that the young man was missing, he had no reason to believe this man was lying about holding him hostage.

He grimaced as he leaned back in his chair. You expected your agents to run into danger. They expected it, too. But an autopsy assistant? That was one of the last people one thought would see any trouble. He wasn't trained to defend himself the way the agents were.

The kidnapper hadn't stated his demands, but Vance would bet a year's salary it had something to do with Cpl. Hensen's.

Gibbs' team was on their way in and another team had been dispatched to investigate the scene of Jimmy's crash and retrieve Hensen's body. Vance had already called up Ducky to speak with him. He wasn't yet aware that Jimmy was missing.

The door opened and Vance's secretary showed Ducky in. He was still wearing his autopsy scrubs. "Director," he greeted, "what can I do for you today?"

Vance could see that Ducky was still ailing a rather nasty cold, one that had confined him to the autopsy room that day. It may have saved his life. Who knew what might have happened if he had been along with Jimmy.

"Dr. Mallard, I received a call half an hour ago, regarding Mr. Palmer."

"Oh, dear, what has he done," Ducky asked. "I gave him very specific directions to the scene."

"He reached the scene," Vance assured him, "and collected the body. It appears, though, that sometime after leaving with the body he suffered a car crash."

"Yes, I told him to drive carefully," he said with a sniff. "Is the boy alright?"

"I'm not so sure the accident was completely his fault," Vance said, purposely evading the question. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "The call I received was from an unidentified man claiming he has taken Mr. Palmer hostage and will not release him unless we cooperate with his demands."

At that Ducky grew pale. "Oh, dear. And what are this man's demands?"

"He hasn't said yet." He was cut off by his phone ringing. He frowned. The computer tech he'd called up to tap his line hadn't arrived yet. No way of back-tracing the call. Though, he supposed, the kidnapper was probably calling from a burn phone anyway. He snapped up the phone. "Director Vance."

"Have you had a chance to consider my offer, Director?" It was him. "I would hate to have to kill this Mr. Palmer and I'm sure it wouldn't be good publicity for your agency if you allowed a civilian employee to be killed."

"We're willing to cooperate. Now tell me what it is you want."

"I want all of the belongings collected from Hensen's body and car."

"Anything in particular?" he asked, hoping this guy would give them a clue as to what they'd found that was so important.

"All of it," the man said, giving nothing away. "Understand?"

"I've got it. How do you want us to handle the exchange?"

"I'll call back in an hour with instructions. That should give you enough time to get the items together. And, of course, set your phone up to trace my call."

Vance was left with the dial tone and a sinking feeling in his stomach.

* * *

When Hal re-entered the cellar, he was holding what looked like a small package with wires connected to it. He set the package down on the bottom step and began fiddling with the wires.

"What's that?" Jimmy asked.

Butch responded with mean kick to his stomach. Jimmy doubled over—at least, he doubled over as far as he could with his hands tied to the pipe—gasping and sputtering as he tried to catch his breath. It felt like a rib or two had broken.

"Don't ask questions," Butch warned.

"No need to be so hostile," Hal said to his goon. "It's understandable that he be curious." He turned his attention to Jimmy, still shaking from the blow. "This is just a security precaution on my part. NCIS will likely try to capture us when we pick up the items. If they do, when they come to get you, they'll be in for a little surprise when they open the door."

Jimmy gulped. "Is that…a…uh…"

"It's a bomb," he assured Jimmy in a calm tone. "It'll be set to go off when that door opens."

"Oh. Will it make a big explosion?"

Hal smiled. "I would say so. Certainly big enough to blow out that window." He saw Jimmy turn white and added, "But if they cooperate with us like they're supposed to, you won't have to worry about a thing."

The man was lying through his teeth and Jimmy could tell. He eyed the bomb warily, soberly aware that it could very well be the cause of his demise.

"So what's going to happen if they, uh, don't capture you guys?"

"We'll come back here, get you, and drop you off somewhere with some change for the pay phone."

A few minutes later, Hal seemed satisfied and he began connecting the bomb to the door. He'd already ordered Butch out and into the house, instructing him to pack everything. Jimmy got the sense they didn't plan on coming back.

"Here," Hal said as he placed a radio next to Jimmy. "So you don't get bored." He flipped it on and turned it to one of the local stations. The high-pitched voices of the famous Chipmunks wafted through the speakers. "Hope you like Christmas carols."

With that, Hal closed the door, leaving a hurt Jimmy alone with the bomb, perched precariously on the second step, and the radio, which soon switched from the Chipmunks to Nat King Cole:

_Chestnuts roasting on an open fire_

_Jack Frost nipping at your nose  
__Yuletide carols being sung by a choir  
__And folks dressed up like Eskimos_

_Everybody knows that turkey and some mistletoe  
__Help to make the season bright  
__Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow  
__Will find it hard to sleep tonight…_

If for no reason other than to calm his nerves, he joined in, his rasping, trembling voice contrasting greatly with Nat's smooth, crooning voice:

_They know that Santa's on his way  
__He's loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh  
__And every mother's child is gonna spy  
__To see if reindeer really know how to fly_

_And so I'm offering this simple phrase  
__To kids from one to ninety-two  
__Although it's been said many times, many ways  
__Merry Christmas to you…_


	4. Chapter 4

Ziva dropped the box on the table and began taking out the bagged items they had collected from the site of the crash, listing off each one as she grabbed it. "A bottle of beer found in his cup holder, a half-empty roll of mints found under the passenger seat, a map of Virginia and Maryland from his glove compartment, car title and registration, insurance card, little hula girl stuck to his dashboard, iPod found on the floor of the car. This does not include the spare tire and tire iron we found in the trunk, though I very much doubt those have any value to the abductors."

Gibbs looked over the small array of items, lips pursed in confusion. He couldn't imagine which of these things was what the kidnapper was after. "What did you find on his body?"

"Just his keys," she said, handing them over.

The key ring held four keys. One was for his car and they assumed another was for his home. "What are these other two keys for?" he asked.

Ziva studied the smaller two keys. Neither looked like it could be for a car or a building. They looked more like keys used for storage lockers. "Perhaps a gym locker?"

"Two keys for a gym locker?"

Tim reached out and lifted one of the keys. "I think this one is for a safety deposit box, boss. My key looks a lot like that."

"You have a safety deposit box, Probie? What do you keep in there? Your copy of _Batman_ issue #1?"

"McGee, call the surrounding banks, and see if Cpl. Hensen had a safety deposit box in any of them."

"What are you thinking, boss?" Tony asked.

"If Cpl. Hensen was stealing classified information, it's likely he was hiding it somewhere no one could get to it."

Ziva checked her watch. "The man will be calling back in twenty minutes. Do you think we'll be able to put something together before we're told where to make the drop?"

"We'll play it by ear, Ziva."

"Who is playing? And what do our ears have to do with anything?"

"Just go up to Vance's office and make sure they're all set up there."

Tony began repacking the box with the bagged items. "How do you think Palmer's holding up?"

"Palmer may be clumsy and he may not always have tact, but he's an adult and can handle himself. It's not like this is the first time he's gotten himself caught up with a perp."

"Yeah, but getting shot at isn't quite the same as being taken hostage like this."

It wasn't, and Gibbs knew it. He didn't like when his people were threatened—and Jimmy was one of his people, even if he didn't acknowledge it. "The kid's got more gumption than you give him credit for, DiNozzo."

"Sometimes you need more than gumption."

"How about you make yourself useful," Gibbs snapped. "Go see how far along Abby is with Hensen's phone records." He'd put her to work on that, hoping she might figure out who their Marine had been dealing with.

Tony nodded and went off to speak with Abby. Gibbs, in the meantime, grabbed the box and began heading up to Director Vance's office. Their hour was almost up.

"Boss!"

He turned to see Tim racing up the stairs after him. "I called a couple branches of my bank and there was one in Quantico that has a safety deposit box under his name. Should I go check it out?"

Gibbs looked at the clock. He knew he couldn't hand the key over to Tim and risk not having it there when they made the drop. It was possible the kidnapper didn't even know what he was looking for, but Gibbs wasn't going to take that chance. Besides, he had a better idea.

"No, McGee. Come on. I think our dirt bag is due to call."

The MCRT and Ducky were assembled in Vance's office along with the Director and a tech who was there to trace the call. Tim, Tony, Ziva, and Ducky were seated at the conference table while Vance and the tech were situated at his desk. Gibbs was standing, arms folded, and leaning against the door. Slowly, the seconds ticked by on the clock and they all held their breath.

The phone rang.

Vance placed his hand on the phone and took a breath. He and the tech exchanged looks and nodded. Then he picked it up as the tech began the trace. "Director Vance."

"I hope you have a pen and paper ready because I'm not going to repeat this."

Vance grabbed a pen. "Go ahead."

"The items are to be put into a shopping bag and you will mark it with a green Christmas bow. There will be no tracking devices in there, Director Vance. Then you—and you alone— will take the bag to the Crystal City Shops and go up to the food court. You will leave the bag under the bench between the elevators. Then you will walk away, Director Vance. You will not stick around to see who picks up the bag. If you do, or if I see anyone watching the bench, I will kill Mr. Palmer. If anyone follows the person who picks up the bag, I will kill him. If anyone other than you delivers the items, I will kill him. And if you attempt to arrest or detain the person who picks up the package, I will kill him. Is that understood?"

"Yes, it is. NCIS will not interfere. We just want the safe return of our employee. After I make the drop, how will our man be returned to us?"

"Once I confirm that all of the items are accounted for and I have what I want, I will send a call to NCIS, letting them know where you can find him. You have one hour to make the drop. After that, I will lose my patience." He didn't need to elaborate on what would happen if he lost his patience. "Oh, and I'll save you the trouble of tracing this call. I'm at the mall right now and will throw this phone away as soon as I hang up. See you soon." Then, the line went dead.

Vance immediately dialed another number. "Weber, I need you and your team for a ransom drop-off. No, this will be very careful and you will not take anyone down unless I give you the cue. Yes…yes, I'll be down soon."

He hung up the phone and turned his attention to the others. "You got all that, Gibbs?" he asked. "He's obviously not alone. We don't know if he saw your team at the crash site, so I don't want any of you at the drop."

"I wasn't planning on having any of us there."

Vance raised an eyebrow. "But you've got another idea brewing." It was a statement, not a question.

Someone knocked at the door. "Come in," Vance called.

His secretary peeked in her head. "Sir, Miss Abby Scuito here to see you."

Vance nodded. His secretary stepped back and Abby appeared in the doorway, visibly upset by the turn of events. She'd even removed the jingling bells she'd tied into her pigtails that day in an attempt to brighten up NCIS for the upcoming holidays.

"Any leads off Hensen's phone records?" Gibbs asked.

"He called the same number on his cell phone, like, a billion times. Well, maybe not a billion, but enough that it's strange."

"Got a name for the number?"

She frowned. "McGee was right; it was a burn phone. It was purchased a month ago at a convenience store and the guy paid cash. The man who I talked to at the store said he'd send over some video footage, but he's not sure if anything worthwhile will be on it."

Gibbs was not impressed. "That all you have to tell me?"

"No, oh impatient one; there's more. They checked Hensen's car and it was clean. Well, I mean it hadn't been tampered with, not like it was, you know, cleanly or anything. The brakes were fine and so was everything else. It looks like there was no foul play there; he just lost control of his car. If the beer bottle in there is any indication, he probably wasn't sober."

"That still doesn't help us, Abbs."

"What if I told you I've been running prints I pulled from Hensen's car and got a hit?"

That got Gibbs' attention. He nodded, silently urging her to continue.

"There was a pristine thumb print on the backseat passenger-side seatbelt latch. Really beautiful, actually."

"And who did this really beautiful thumb print belong to?"

"Some guy by the name of Butch Stroman. He's been booked a couple of times for selling hot car parts."

"Why does the temperature of the parts matter?" Ziva asked, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"She means the parts were stolen," Tim explained.

"It's been mostly misdemeanor stuff for him," Abby continued. A slap on the wrist or a fine. The most jail time he did was six months last year."

"If he was sitting in the back while Hensen was driving, it stands to reason there was a third person in the car," Vance commented. "Though, it doesn't mean either of them is involved. Any possibility they might have met some other time, Miss Scuito? Through work or mutual acquaintances?"

She shook her head. "I've checked their histories through the past five years, but I can't find any reasons why Stroman's path would have crossed with Hensen's. If anything, they were probably going through great lengths to hide that they knew each other."

"Abby, do a complete background check on this guy," Gibbs said. "Let me know what you find." She nodded and left to do just that. Gibbs turned to Vance. "I think you'd better get over to make the drop, Leon. Don't want our dirt bag to lose his patience."

Vance nodded. He stood and retrieved the box of things; then, he leveled Gibbs with a look. "And what will you be doing in the meantime?"

"Oh, I'll keep busy," Gibbs assured him. "As soon as we find out where they're holding Palmer, we'll head on over and get him. But I would like your permission to dispatch a second team for another purpose, Leon."

"Sure," he said with a nod. "Granger's team should be available."

"And what can I do, Director," Ducky asked, speaking for the first time in almost an hour. His stomach was churning guiltily; he felt responsible for Jimmy in the same way Gibbs felt responsible for his team.

"Unfortunately, Dr. Mallard, not much at the moment. For now, I suggest you pray we don't need your expertise for anyone other than Cpl. Hensen today."

* * *

_Come and trim my Christmas tree  
__With some decorations bought at Tiffany's  
__I really do believe in you  
__Let's see if you believe in me  
__Ba doop be doo_

_Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing  
__A ring  
__I don't mean on the phone  
__Santa baby, hurry down the chimney tonight  
__Hurry down the chimney tonight  
__Hurry…tonight…_

"That was Eartha Kitt singing 'Santa Baby,'" the Radio DJ said after the last note of the song had faded away. "I'm your DJ for the hour, Rockin' Rick, and this is your station for non-stop Christmas music, getting you into the groove for the season. Up next, we have some sentimental favorites for you, including Brenda Lee's rendition of 'Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree,' coming up after these words from our sponsors."

Jimmy shivered. This place wasn't very warm and the temperature was dropping each minute. He almost wished he'd had the foresight to ask his abductors to build him a small fire before they'd left. Sure, he probably would have died from smoke inhalation, but at least he'd be warm.

_Maybe I'll just freeze to death before that bomb goes off_, he mused, half-delirious from sheer exhaustion. He wasn't sure which death would be preferable.

He took a deep breath and winced. The pain from being kicked had subsided for the most part, but when he took deep breaths it hurt, further confirming his suspicions that he had at least broken rib.

For half an hour he'd been sitting there, making peace with his fate. He hadn't thought he'd die this young. He was sure he would at least finish medical school before dying. He'd hoped he would have been settled down with a nice girl, maybe have some children. It felt like he'd left so much undone.

It wasn't the dying that really bothered him, though; it was more that he hadn't had the chance to say goodbye to his family and friends. The last time he'd even talked to his mother was a week before. He'd been avoiding her calls all during finals. Now he wished he could have heard her one more time. He closed his eyes and imagined her talking to him, right there.

_Jimmy,_ she would say, _you shouldn't avoid my calls. After I spent almost two days in labor with you? I thought I'd raised you better than that._

"Sorry, mom," he muttered sheepishly, despite the fact that she wasn't really there. Even in his imagination, she was the voice of authority. "I was busy with school."

_And now look at you_, she would continue with a sigh.

"Hey, this isn't my fault. I didn't ask to be taken hostage."

_Oh, I know that. But what are you doing about it? You're sitting here feeling sorry for yourself._

He groaned. "Well, what am I supposed to do? I'm not a federal agent. I don't carry a gun! Either way, I was going to die. This is it; it's the end of the road for me."

_Now, Jimmy, I _know_ I never raised you to be a quitter!_

"I'm not quitting; I'm just accepting my fate."

_And what about the poor people who come get you? They haven't a clue that as soon as they open that door they'll be blown to smithereens too. Don't you care about that?_

He frowned. That hadn't crossed his mind. Now that he thought about it, he realized there was more than one life on the line here. His own death he could deal with—even if he would have preferred to avoid it longer. Another person's death, though? That didn't sit well with him. Someone who had been sent to rescue him could also die here; several someones, in fact. That was too many deaths.

"But I'm tied up," he bemoaned. "I don't have a cell phone. I don't have anything! What can I do?"

_You're a smart boy, Jimmy. I know you'll think of something._

"But—!" He opened his eyes and his words died on his mouth. His mother wasn't really there. He was just talking to himself. She couldn't give him any advice. He would have to figure it out on his own.

"Okay," he said with new found determination, "what would Gibbs do?" Well, that wasn't a completely fair assessment. After all, he was _not_ Gibbs. He wasn't trained for this the way Gibbs and the other agents were. He was all academia. His role in their investigations called for no feats of derring-do. He cut and sliced and diced and offered educated theories; nothing more.

"The rules…Gibbs' rules." Everyone, of course, knew of the fifty rules Gibbs foisted upon his team. No one outside of his team knew all of them, but they caught some here and there, swapped them with one another. He remembered Michelle talking about them. One of them had been something about never being without a knife. He groaned. He would have done well to heed that rule. But he had nothing…nothing with which to cut these bind. All he had were the clothes on his back…

"My glasses!" he exclaimed. How easily he forgets them. One well-placed break and he should have a shard sharp enough to cut through the ropes. He would be practically blind, but it was his only shot at getting out. Carefully, Jimmy leaned his head down as far as it could go. Then, shaking his head, he slowly worked his glasses down, bit by bit, until finally, they fell into his lap. He pushed them a little further out with the toe of his shoe, then, after a short pause of hesitancy, he brought his heel down hard on the right lens. He did this twice; then, he heard the satisfying crunch he'd been waiting for.

The lens broke into two large pieces and a couple of small shards. He kicked the frames to the side and gently placed his foot on top of the pieces of glass. This would be the tricky part. At an excruciatingly slow pace, Jimmy brought his foot and the pieces in toward his body. He had to be a bit limber and lift most of his body up to push the shards beneath him and toward his hands. It was painful, especially with his broken ribs, but he grunted through it. He then carefully lowered his body and searched for the glass pieces. His hands were almost completely restrained, but they finally brushed across the shards. He curled his fingers around it and clutched it tightly in his hand. Then, he began rubbing the sharp edge against the ropes.

It wasn't as easy or as quick as he thought it would be, and he cut his hands more than a few times in the process. But soon, he felt the ropes loosening and he finally managed to squeeze his hands through. His wrists were red and raw, his hands were bleeding, and now he couldn't see as well as he would like to, but he had mobility. It was a step in the right direction.

But now what?

He went to the window and peered out. The snow was falling furiously and he could barely see through the wall of white flakes. How soon until someone got here for him? More importantly, how would he stop them before they opened the door, blowing themselves—and him—into tiny little pieces? He didn't dare try and disarm the bomb himself. Watching a few action movies didn't make him an expert on the subject. With his luck, he'd end up snipping the blue wire when he was supposed to cut the red one.

Jimmy ran his hand along the window. It didn't open. He could break the glass, but even then, he wouldn't be able to fit through the tiny panes. All that would accomplish would be to let more cold air in.

Over one hurdle and he'd hit a brick wall. His spirits deflated once more and he leaned back against the wall, sliding to the floor. He brought his knees up and wrapped his arms around them, hanging his head down low.

He had tried…but he had failed.


	5. Chapter 5

"Gibbs!" Abby greeted excitedly as the team entered. "I've got something. More than one something, in fact!" She then noticed his empty hands and frowned. "What, no Caf-Pow?"

"Machine is broken, Abbs."

She sighed exasperatedly. "Fine, I guess I can do this without one. For Jimmy."

"Glad to hear it. Now what do you know?"

"Stroman's listed place of residence when he was arrested last year was a house located in the woods of Falls Church."

"That's where we were," Tony said. "Well, near there, at least."

"The house is about forty minutes from where the crash happened."

"Could be where they stashed Jimmy," Tim said.

Gibbs nodded. "Give us the directions."

"Way ahead of you," she said, handing them over.

"You said you have more, Abby?" Ziva asked.

"Indeed! I did a little research into Stroman's stay in jail and found that while he was there, his cellmate was this guy," she said, pulling up a picture. "His name is Hal Coleman. They met while he was serving out the end of a two year sentence for a string of robberies he'd pulled. He had targeted homes in gated communities, pretending he had been sent by the Home Owner's Association to check things, like the roofing or the plumbing. While he was doing that, he would swipe jewelry or other valuables."

"Just because he's a former criminal doesn't mean he's involved, Abbs," Tony said.

"I never said it did, Tony. And at first, I didn't think anything of it. Then, I got the footage from the convenience store." She brought up a grainy video of a store counter. The clerk's back was to the camera, but the customer was facing it almost head on.

"That's the same guy," Tim agreed.

"And he's buying a pre-paid phone. Now, it's impossible to tell if it's the same one Hensen was calling, but I'd say that everything together makes for one hell of a coincidence, don't you think?"

Gibbs studied the man in the video. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the man who was missing in this overall equation. "Good work, Abbs," he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. "I owe you two Caf-Pows."

"I'll be waiting patiently," she assured him as they filed out. She only hoped they would get there before it was too late.

* * *

Vance entered the Crystal City Shops, holding a shopping bag he'd grabbed from one of the department stores. He had marked it with the green Christmas bow, per the abductor's instructions, and inside were the items they had retrieved from Hensen and his car, including the key ring with all of the keys. Agent Weber and his team were already situated. One was in the food court, another was watching the front exit, one was watching the back exit, and one was in the parking lot, circling in the car in case he needed to follow. They'd already been told that discretion was of the utmost importance. If their perp was going to notice them, fall back.

He was wearing an earwig to monitor their communication, but he wanted to be careful not to speak, lest their perp should notice. No need to give themselves away.

"Everyone ready?" he heard Weber ask.

"Yes," his agents chorused.

"Remember: do not approach the suspect. Just observe."

Vance took the escalator up to the second floor, where the food court was. The mall was packed with people trying to get their Christmas shopping in. It seemed everywhere he looked, shoppers passed, their arms weighed down with bags.

He wondered which of them was the abductor they were looking for.

The bench between the elevators was vacant, and for that Vance was thankful. He could only imagine how awkward it would be to try and shove the bag under it with a group of people sitting there.

He took a seat and placed the bag underneath. He then waited a few seconds, then stood and walked off, hoping none of the shoppers had noticed. The last thing he needed was for a Good Samaritan shopper to retrieve the bag and try to return it to him.

But no one said a thing. He wanted to turn to see who came for it, but he resisted the urge and just kept walking.

Five minutes after Vance had left it, Butch approached the bench. He grabbed the bag, removed the bow, and proceeded to dump the contents into another bag. Then, he threw the bag Vance had brought into the garbage, took the elevator down, and walked out the front door and to the car, sliding into the front passenger seat. A few minutes later, Hal joined him in the driver's seat.

"No one followed you," he said. "Is it there?"

Butch pulled out the key ring. "Let's hope it's one of these."

"If it's not," Hal said as he started up the car, "we'll send NCIS their employee's ear as an incentive."

Neither man noticed a dark Sedan following behind them as they pulled onto the road.

* * *

Jimmy was starting to hate Christmas carols. He especially hated the joyful ones, the songs that implied that the Christmas season was a happy one. Like the one playing right now:

_Have a holly, jolly Christmas  
__It's the best time of the year  
__I don't know if there'll be snow  
__But have a cup of cheer_

_Have a holly, jolly Christmas  
__And when you walk down the street  
__Say hello to friends you know  
__And everyone you meet_

He snorted. Some holly, jolly Christmas this was turning out to be. He was sitting in a room with a bomb, whoever came to rescue him was going to be killed too, and he had no way of warning them or escaping. On top of that, he was now half-blind and that kick to his ribs was starting to hinder his movements greatly.

He would have turned the radio off, but then he'd just be alone, with only the sound of the violent winds to fill the silence. At least the radio kept him from thinking about the bomb too much.

Sitting there, his breathing becoming labored from a combination of the cold and the broken ribs, he wondered who would be coming to find him. No doubt, it would be Gibbs' team; Ducky would probably insist upon it.

Jimmy frowned. While it was true that he had never been completely comfortable around Agent Gibbs, he did respect and admire him as a person. He didn't want to think about him getting blown to bits.

And what about Tony? Sure, he could be juvenile and Jimmy didn't particularly care for the unflattering nickname Tony had bestowed upon him, but there had been times in the past when Jimmy had found Tony seeking out his advice on things, though in a stealthy manner, always away from the others.

Ziva had always been kind to him. Sure, she could be intimidating at times—especially when she was cleaning her knife—but she always had his back. And he was going to repay her by sitting here, doing nothing when she could being rushing here to save him and would probably die in the process?

He thought about Tim. Like him, he was something of a geek and a little bumbling in his own way. While never a close friend, he considered Tim a close acquaintance. He'd been there for Jimmy when he'd been shot at. Tim, he knew, had a sister and two loving parents; he hated to think of them getting a horrible shock for Christmas.

No…no, he couldn't let that happen to them; he couldn't let it happen to _him_.

With newfound determination, he sprung to his feet and began looking around. There were unmarked boxes all around and he began rummaging through them. There was a box of car parts, one with electronics, one with movies, and one with a few kitchen appliances. "What can I do with all of this?" he wondered aloud.

He couldn't disarm a bomb and he couldn't get through the window. There was no reason for him to think he'd be able to get the attention of whoever came for him before they opened the door. The window was low to the ground and barely noticeable from outside. With the snow falling as hard as it was, it would be a wonder if he'd be able to see them at all. The radio's volume didn't go up high enough for it to get attention, especially when it was competing with howling winds.

With a sigh, he sank back down to the floor. So what did he have to work with? Not much. Electronics, movies, car parts. MacGyver may have been able to do something with all of this stuff, but Jimmy's mind was a complete blank. Maybe he should have watched _MacGyver_ more when he was younger. Who could have known it might someday come in handy?

He was angry. He was frustrated. Worse, he was scared.

Jimmy looked with disdain at one of the boxes. Stupid box. He kicked it just out of spite and then kicked it again. It fell over, the top falling open and all of its contents spilling out. It was one of the ones with movies in it. The discs and their holders fell out of the box, littering the floor. But then, Jimmy saw something else under them in the box: fireworks, and lots of them.

He knelt down, pushing aside the movies. He reached into the overturned box and began pulling them out in handfuls. Most of them were small things—smoke bombs, jumping jacks, and the such—but at the bottom were a few larger fireworks, the kind that really shot up into the sky. With great interest and budding hope, Jimmy searched through the pile of explosives, until his fingers finally wrapped around the thing he was hoping to find.

Roman Candles.

Hope sprung up inside of him as a plan began formulating in his mind. It _could _work. All he needed was a lighter, and a little more rummaging found a handful at the bottom of the pile.

Jimmy glanced at the bomb, sitting so innocently on the step. Then he looked out the window. No sign of anyone yet. But when they came, he'd be prepared.

He hoped.


	6. Chapter 6

Hal and Butch pulled up to the bank. Hensen had told them the information he'd stolen was in his security deposit box at the bank, apparently under the impression that they wouldn't be able to get to it without him.

He'd been wrong.

"They'll probably want a signature sample," Butch warned as they entered.

"I'm not an idiot," Hal shot back. "I've got it covered."

The dark Sedan pulled up across the street. The occupant exited, but kept his distance. He knew to wait for the signal before acting.

The two men entered the bank and got in the small line. Soon, they meet with the teller. "Leonard Hensen," Hal greeted smoothly, flashing a fake identification card. "I need access to my security deposit box."

"Mr. Hensen," the teller nodded. "Just one moment." She disappeared into the back, leaving them in the front of the bank with just one other teller and two other customers. As they waited, a third customer entered, stepping in line right behind them.

"Let's get it and get out of here," Hal said in a hushed tone. He was beginning to sweat.

"I don't see that happening, sir."

Hal and Butch froze. Each turned to see the other teller leveling them with a gun.

Instinctively, each reached for their own weapons, assuming it would be a two-against-one shoot out, but the sound of more cocking guns stopped them. The other three customers had also produced guns which were now aimed at them.

"Put your hands behind your backs, thumbs intertwined," ordered one of the "customers." She swiftly handcuffed them, obviously not taking much care in sparing them any pain.

"Tell Vance we've got them," the "teller" ordered one of the other men once Hal and Butch were restrained.

"Very clever," Hal commented with a mirthless grin. "I suppose I should have seen this coming. Unfortunately for your young employee, he'll never live to see another day now."

"I wouldn't be so certain," the other man shot back. "Agent Gibbs informed us that they've tracked down your little hideout. His team is on the way there, as we speak."

The teller holstered his gun and roughly grabbed Hal's shoulder. "Right this way," he said, pushing Hal out the door and toward the Sedan. "We'll send somebody down to pick up your car, though I don't imagine you'll be needing it anytime soon."

Hal barely noticed as he and Butch were shoved into the back of the Sedan in a less-than-gentle manner. So a team was on their way to the house, thinking themselves to be the rescue team. Unfortunately for them, they wouldn't make it one step inside the cellar before the bomb went off. It was only too bad he'd have to miss the fireworks. He may be on his way to prison, but he would still have the last laugh.

None of the other agents noticed his smug smile.

* * *

Jimmy had collected as many of the Roman Candles as he could find, along with a couple of other small fireworks that might make lots of noise. He would frequently squint out the window for any sign of someone arriving, but so far he saw no one. Unfortunately, the window only offered a view of one side of the road, so he would have to be vigilant and alert to every sound and sight from the outside.

_Oh, the weather outside is frightful  
__But the fire is so delightful  
__And since we've no place to go  
__Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow_

He turned a disdainful eye to the radio. The weather outside was certainly frightful, but he could hardly describe his current situation as anything resembling delightful. The last thing he wanted was more snow. As it was he could barely see through the blanket of white flurries; worse, they were beginning to accumulate on the ground and against the window, further blocking his view. Add his lack of glasses into the mix and his situation looked quite bleak.

He thought about that little song children would sing when they wanted the rain to go away. In this case, he wanted the snow to stop, but snow was technically just frozen rain, so he saw no reason why it couldn't be applied here.

"Snow, snow, go away," he murmured irritably, "come again another day. Snow, snow, go away…" Jimmy continued mumbling the words under his breath, as if they might reach the ears of the weather gods themselves, forcing them to cease the snowfall, at least for the time being.

* * *

"Think they left the Autopsy Grem—uh, I mean Palmer—think they left him…well…"

"Alive, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked as he traversed the road through the heavy snow. They had the directions, but when you were this far into the woods, it wasn't easy to find your way, especially in this weather. There were no street signs lining the path, telling them where to turn off.

"Well, yeah," Tony said, already regretting bringing up the subject. He didn't want to think about Jimmy being dead; while sometimes a nuisance, he'd come to appreciate the guy, especially when he offered up advice now and then. He could see Jimmy being the Ducky to his Gibbs.

"Perhaps," Ziva said, "but I find it unlikely. They would want to be certain they have what they need before cutting their loose threads."

"Loose ends, Ziva," Tim corrected.

"It is the same thing. My point is that they would not waste a valuable hostage until they are certain NCIS has given them what they want."

The three of them winced as Gibbs took a sharp turn, causing the car to skid slightly on the icy road. None of them wanted to ask him to slow down, though.

Gibbs phone rang. "Yeah, Gibbs," he greeted.

"Gibbs, it's Granger. Just wanted to let you know we've got the suspects in custody. They came to the bank, just like you thought."

"They say anything?"

"The big one's been cursing at everyone, but the short one's been kind of quiet lately. We've got them in separate interrogation rooms. Figured you might want the honors."

"We'll see," Gibbs said, his mind on Jimmy. He didn't know what they'd find there or what state Jimmy would be in. "If I'm not back in a few hours, feel free to handle it yourself."

"I will, Gibbs. Let us know what happens with Palmer. He's a crazy kid, but we like him."

At that, Gibbs had to smile. "Got it," he said. "Thanks for the update." With that, he flipped closed the phone.

"Boss?" Tim asked from the back.

"Our dirtbags were nabbed at the bank. They're in custody and at NCIS."

The car's occupants collectively breathed a sigh of relief at the news. With the bad guys securely confined, they no longer had any reason to fear for Jimmy's safety.

At least, as far as they knew.

* * *

Jimmy glanced out the window. His singing—or, rather, chanting, as that's what it had become—was doing little to stop the flakes from falling. He squinted, looking for anyone. But he saw no one; not even the blurry shape of a car. Of course, that may have had something to do with the fact that the snow was sticking against the glass, thus obscuring his view.

He groaned, knowing already what he had to do. The cellar was already freezing, but he had to break the window. It would have come to that eventually, of course (one couldn't very well set off fireworks indoors), but he'd hoped he could put it off until the last moment, save himself from the dreadful cold.

He slipped his jacket off and wrapped it around his hand. He hesitated for a moment, but then, with great gusto, he smashed the jacket-covered hand through one of the window panes, cracking straight through. The frigid wind swooshed in, making Jimmy shiver to his core. He ran the protected hand along the sides, brushing away any remaining glass. Then, he unwrapped the jacket, shook away debris, and quickly wrapped it around his body once more, appreciative of the little warmth it offered against the ferocious cold.

Jimmy pulled his hand inside the sleeve of his jacket, then he reached through the newly-made hole and, with the sleeve-covered hand, brushed away the snow that was blocking his view.

Now to wait patiently.

* * *

"Turn here, boss" Tim instructed to Gibbs.

They turned onto a beaten path and clunked their way down, seeming to hit every bump and dip possible. All they could see before them was a wall of white flakes.

"According to Abby's directions, the house should be a couple of miles ahead."

"We will be lucky if we can find anything in this weather," Tony commented.

Sure enough, though, they soon came upon a small house nestled between the trees of the woods. There were no other cars parked outside, nor did it look like the lights were on inside.

"Don't think anyone's home," Tony said as they exited the car.

"McGee, Tony," Gibbs ordered, "go around back. Ziva and I will take the front."

Tim nodded toward the double doors abutting the house. "Looks like they've got an underground cellar."

"Perfect place to keep a hostage," Ziva said.

Before any of them could so much as take another step, there was a small explosion of lights and sounds on the other side of the house.

* * *

Somehow, Jimmy had managed to hear them approaching through the howling winds. The sound of tires crunching along piles of snow caught his attention and he jumped to his feet, running toward the window. He was just in time to see the rear bumper of the car pass by.

Time to put his plan into action.

He grabbed one of the Roman Candles and the lighter. He was moving more slowly now, a combination of the injuries he'd sustained to his ribs and the cold he'd had to endure for these past hours, made worse by the snow and wind pouring in through the broken window. Still, he swallowed down the pain and weariness, putting all of his energy into what he had to do.

Jimmy settled the side of the firework along the frame of the broken window, holding it so that it pointed roughly at a forty-five degree angle. Then, he flicked the lighter and held the flame against the fuse.

Seconds later, the Roman Candle shot out, filling the sky with a bright light. He recoiled slightly from the force of the shot, but regained his footing and collected the next one, repeating his actions. His hands were shaking, but he didn't know from what. Was it the numbing pain? Was it the cold? Or was it just the strange mixture of fear and excitement that was running through his veins?

* * *

"What was that?" Tony asked incredulously. They had all grabbed their guns at the sound, but it was pretty obvious they weren't being shot at. Guns shots weren't usually accompanied by bright lights in the sky.

"Sounded like a firecracker."

"A firecracker?" Ziva asked. "Is that like a graham cracker?"

"No," Tony said with a roll of his eyes, "they're the things you light and then they explode, usually in the sky. It—" He was interrupted by another bright explosion in the sky, very similar to the first one. It was coming from the opposite side of the house.

"Over there," Ziva said, pointing to where she had seen the explosion. With gun in hand, she retreated to the other side, Tim following behind. Gibbs and Tony went the other way, intending to meet them on the other side.

Ziva rounded the corner, but she didn't immediately see anyone.

"Ziva! McGee!" came the wary exclamations, barely audible above the sound of the wind and of the crunching snow beneath their feet. They both looked around in confusion, seeing no source of the calls. Gibbs and Tony came around the other side and also looked around.

"Down here!"

Tim caught sight of the sparks in his peripheral vision and looked down to see a trembling hand holding a piteous sparkler out from beneath the house. "Jimmy?" he asked, rushing to kneel down beside it.

The window was barely noticeable as low to the ground as it was, and the snow was beginning to pile again. Had it not been for the crackling of the sparkler, they may not have noticed at all.

"Palmer!" Tony exclaimed, falling to his knees beside Tim. Jimmy looked much worse for wear. His glasses were obviously missing, there were small cuts on his hands, and he was holding his side in an unpleasant way. "Hey, don't worry, we'll come around and get the door open in a jiff."

"No!" Jimmy shouted, his voice rasping harshly. "The guy…he attached the door to a bomb. You open it and we all blow up. I don't know how you'll get the thing disarmed, though," he said before breaking off into a cough.

"We'll get someone out here," Gibbs promised. McGee was already pulling out his phone. "Don't worry, Palmer; we're going to get you out of there in one piece. Just hold tight."

For the first time since he'd woken up that morning, Jimmy felt himself breathe a steady sigh of relief.


	7. Chapter 7

It took a couple more hours until Jimmy got out of the cellar. First, the metal window frame had to be dismantled from the outside so a bomb squad member would be able to slip through the opening and disarm the bomb. In the meantime, the team provided Jimmy with a blanket, water, and food.

Once the window frame was gone, Jimmy was carefully extracted through the newly-made opening, trying to avoid any more harm to his ribs. He was then placed in an ambulance and rushed to the hospital to be treated for his broken ribs, cut hands, and his prolonged exposure to the cold. The latter was most likely a superfluous concern, but the doctor figured it was better to be safe than sorry; pneumonia could sneak up on a guy, and no one wanted that during the holiday season.

"Jimmy!" Ducky exclaimed. "How are you doing, lad?"

"Oh, uh, fine, Dr. Mallard," Jimmy said, somewhat shocked to see his mentor there before him. It was late at night and Jimmy figured Ducky had long since retreated him. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? Where else would I be? I can't leave you here in a hospital bed all alone. I need to make sure the doctors looking after you are competent. Nothing worse than a doctor who doesn't know what they're doing."

Jimmy smiled in spite of his weariness. "He's competent," Jimmy assured him.

"Yes, everything looks to be in order. Do they have you on painkillers?"

"Yeah…feels good…"

Ducky laughed. "I'm sure it does, my boy."

"Jimmy!"

A ball of excitement bound into the room at high speed. She would have tackled Jimmy with an air tight hug had Ducky not intervened with a gentle hand on her arm.

"Abby, I'm sure Mr. Palmer appreciates your enthusiasm, but with two broken ribs, perhaps this isn't the time for a hug."

"Sorry," she apologized sheepishly. "But I owe you a hug. Wait, no, _two _hugs!"

"You don't have to give me any hugs."

"Don't be silly, Jimmy! Of course I do! It's not every day a friend gets kidnapped and almost blown to smithereens by a bomb. Those are some bad guys," she concluded with a shiver.

"Uh, speaking of which, where are they?" he hadn't even thought about the fate of his captors until that moment. He hated to think about them getting away.

"Last I checked, they were still being held in the interrogation rooms," Ducky said.

"So they _were_ caught," Jimmy said, visibly relieved.

"Duh! You think Gibbs would let those guys get away with it? I'll bet he's there right now, tearing them new ones."

"Guess again, Abbs," Tony said as he and the team filed in. "Gibbs decided to give Agent Granger the pleasure."

Abby raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Wow! None of the 'Gibbs Breaking' this time around?"

"No need to break them," Gibbs said.

"We've got enough evidence for them to drown in," Tim said in agreement. "Between the fingerprints found on the bomb and amount of information tying Hensen to Coleman and Stroman, they'll need a hell of a legal team to dig themselves out."

"I am sure I could find the time to break one or more bones in their bodies," Ziva offered with a sweet smile. "I doubt anyone would notice."

"Ah, no," Jimmy said, "but, uh, thank you for the offer, Ziva." He didn't know much about the legal system, but he knew enough to know that hurting your suspects—even if they really, _really_ deserved—usually didn't go over well in court.

The team stayed for a short visit, talking with Jimmy about the ordeal, making certain he was okay, and thanking him for his quick thinking, which had probably saved most—if not all—of their lives. More likely than not, they would have barged right into the cellar without a second thought, detonating the bomb. It was eerie to think how close they'd been to death, especially for Jimmy, as he didn't consider that to be part of the job the way the team did.

Soon, the nurse appeared in the doorway to shoo them out, insisting that Jimmy be left alone to get his rest. "You all can come back tomorrow and visit," she told them as they said their good-byes.

"Bye, Jimmy," Abby said, giving her the gentlest hug she could.

Ducky gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. "I've asked that Director Vance give you paid vacation time while you recover, so don't worry about any of that."

"Thank you, Dr. Mallard," Jimmy said wearily. He was beginning to feel the effects of his medicine. "I'm sure I'll see you before then, but if I don't, Merry Christmas."

"Yes, and a Merry Christmas to you as well, lad."

Soon, they had all exited. Well, almost all; only Gibbs lingered. Despite his mind growing cloudy, Jimmy still felt himself tremble with nerves.

But Gibbs merely gave him a nod, a small smile playing on his face. "Not bad, Palmer. Not bad at all."

"Oh…" Jimmy replied, visibly flattered by the well-earned compliment. "Thanks."

"Anything I can do for you, dear?" the nurse asked once the room was empty.

Jimmy turned his head to the side and caught sight of a small radio. He lifted a hand a pointed. "Radio. Christmas carols, please" It was all he was able to get out.

The nurse smiled pleasantly. "Of course, sweetheart." She clicked it on, turning it to one of the stations playing Holiday songs. "Sleep well. The doctor will check on you in the morning."

With a relaxed grin, Jimmy settled down into the hospital bed as the smooth tune encapsulated him, wrapping him in a warm, comforting cocoon of holiday cheer:

_I'll be home for Christmas  
__You can plan on me  
__Please have snow and mistletoe  
__And presents on the tree_

_Christmas Eve will find me  
__Where the lovelight gleams  
__I'll be home for Christmas  
__If only in my dreams_

**

* * *

**

**AN: **And that's the end of this story! Thank you all for reading!


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